A Difference of Approach
by thisisnotmybeautifulhouse
Summary: Written for this quote No process is possible in which the sole result is the absorption of heat from a reservoir and its complete conversion into work.


Alex sits in the uncomfortable metal chair in what everyone considers Hank's domain, struggling not to shift unnecessarilly. It's hard to resist the need to move when someone constantly pokes and prods sensitive places, such as his chest, the site at which his body channels plasma.

"How long have you been experiencing unexpected periods of fatigue following discharge?" The question is phrased so clinically, there's no way it was meant as a double entendre, especially considering the source. Alex still cannot entirely fight the urge to flush. Typically when men discuss 'discharge,' plasma blasts have nothing to do with it.

Also, it's kind of awkward having this conversation with the guy he thinks about when he does spend some time secluded behind closed doors. He tries not to stare too obviously, too amorously, but Hank is so _close_. By this point, before everything that happened in Cuba, he would already have shot off some cutting remark and swaggered from the room, feigning self-satisfaction. Unfortunately, he truly does need to find out why he has been so tired lately. With so few of their group left, they cannot afford to have someone falling ill or struggling with their abilities.

He licks his lips to give himself something to do before he has to say, in as steady a voice as he can manage, "A few weeks."

Stilling, Hank stares at him intensely for an endless moment before shaking his head, biting his lips against what Alex suspects would be a swear word, were Hank the kind of person to allow himself that kind of breach in etiquette in all save the most desperate of circumstances. Hank McCoy _is_ control these days, constantly worried about what he nearly did to Erik in the hangar several months ago. After what Erik did to the professor, to all of them, Alex isn't sure he feels the same. "This has been going on for a few _weeks_? Why am I only hearing about this now?"

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Alex admits, "You've been so busy helping the professor set up the school, and I've been trying to apply to colleges. There's just not enough hours in the day, now that there's only four of us."

"Does Charles know about this?" He sounds like he already knows, and disapproves, of the answer.

Even so, Alex mumbles, "No."

Hank heaves a massive sigh, the warm air ruffling his fur. "Sometimes your plasma's ability to partially block his telepathy is incredibly exasperating."

"I'm not really all that sorry about it." He's not. It's such a boon being at least somewhat insulated from Charles' currently out of whack mutation. Sean and Hank cannot keep anything private, which creates a great deal of discomfort for all parties involved in certain situations, but Alex still has a bit of a safe haven within his own mind. They discovered this when Charles first arrived home from the hospital, and Alex was the only one not affected by his bouts of depression. This meant that for the first few weeks, he was the sole person in charge of taking care of the paralyzed professor. It was nice, in that it allowed Alex to really get to know Charles, to learn to trust and care about another individual again. It was _horrible_, in that it was frequently humiliating for a man usually so completely governed by the bounds of propriety, to depend upon someone for assistance in all aspects of his life, including the use of the restroom. Now, though, Charles has found something to help him cope - his desire to create a school for young mutants. It's not ideal. What will they do once the furor of setting everything up dies down? They're not entirely certain whether teaching the students will be enough to keep the man from slipping back into dark thoughts and painful memories. Still, it's good to have something to keep all their minds occupied, and they can always hope.

"Yes, well. I don't suppose you would be." Hank turns away and glances at the notes he has taken off and on since Alex entered the lab earlier, informing the young scientist that he sort of might have_ maybe_blacked out in the bunker earlier. "The only viable solution to your problem would be to eat more and try to get more sleep. It isn't the new plate causing the problem. It still channels the same amount of energy. You, however, have not been taking care of yourself. If you wish to avoid further fainting spells, that will need to stop. When you release plasma, it drains you of the excess cosmic energy which builds up over a period of time, but it also drains a certain amount of the energy your body would produce naturally as well. If you continue to use your mutation the same way, but you reduce the amount of energy your body consumes, then you will obviously become tired more easily."

"Okay, then. Can I put my shirt back on now?" He has goosebumps all over the exposed skin of his torso and his arms, and he constantly feels on the verge of shuddering, whereas Hank remains blissfully unaware of the almost frigid temperature of the lab. In fact, Alex has the feeling that Hank actually_ likes_it, his fur insulating him better than the thick flannel Alex has taken to throwing over his covers at night, now that fall is upon them in earnest.

"Yes, of course. I apologize if you're cold - I tend to notice dips in the ambient temperature less now." Hank is the picture of shame right now, and the heat of his anger chases the previous chill in Alex's body away faster than the sensation that comes from stepping out of a darkened house and into direct sunlight.

Before he is entirely cognizant of his actions, Alex leaps off of the lab chair and advances toward Hank, crowding him against the back wall. "Stop it. Stop feeling like you're less than the rest of us because your mutation is out there for the world to see. It's not something you should cover up - it's unbelievable and amazing and it _does not make you a freak_." Even though he cannot begin to intimidate Hank with his physical presence, an irate Alex Summers is always a dangerous one. Hank may have excellent control, but Alex is still as wild and untamed as the sea, his powers as treacherous, particularly now.

"Alright, Alex. I believe you," Hank tries to placate, raising one hand to run soothingly up and down Alex's still-bare arm.

A snort comparable to a bull's issues from his mouth in response. "No, you don't."

"Okay, maybe I don't," Hank concedes before suggesting, "Why don't we take a moment to calm down and -"

"_No_way. I'm done leaving you to sort this out on your own. This time, we're doing it my way." With that, Alex tangles his fingers in downy soft fur for leverage, bringing their lips together heatedly, harshly, hungrily.

When at last they draw apart for air, Hank pants, "Your method may be rather crude, but I rather think I prefer it."

"This may come as a shock to you, but science is not _actually_the answer to everything." The words are every bit as acerbic as normal, but the tone is infinitely softer.

Hank rather thinks he prefers that, too.

**This was written for a writing comm where I have the dubious honor of being the only one who knows anything about_ X-men: First Class_. That's alright, though. Hopefully this doesn't bear too much resemblance to _Show Me Where to Look - What Will I Find?_, because I definitely tried to make them different. I think I just have this thing for Alex and Hank interacting the lab. Who knows? I'm sure everyone's looking around at this point going, "Why were you writing this when you could have been writing more of that one cookie fic?" but I do occasionally write other things. Sometimes they're even essays for RL. I should be doing that right now, so I can get a head start on next week's assignment, but I feel awful today, so I'm catching up on lj prompts instead.**


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